Page 38 of Poetry On Ice

Now.

It occurs to me that a porter brought our luggage up, so Decker may not know what room number we’re in. I mean, they always write the room number on the little envelope the key card comes in, but still, no harm in clear communication.

We’re in 1023.

Tenth floor. Make a left when you get out of the elevator, then turn right at the end of the hallway.

Okay, there. That’s enough. I think I’ve got my point across.

I watch with bated breath as two blue ticks appear next to my messages. And…nothing.

He doesn’t reply.

One minute turns to two, then four, then seven. Nerves and excitement congeal. They thicken and solidify, slowing my thoughts as they transform into a base rage that completely takes me over. It’s an ancient rage. A heart-thumping, sneering, snarling rage. An old, familiar feeling from a different time. A simpler, dumber time. My amygdala lights up and my prefrontal cortex shuts down.

I stomp my feet into a pair of jeans and throw on a top and sneakers with no socks, hopping from one foot to the other as I head for the door.

I’m done with this.

I’m done with Decker’s shit.

I’m going down to that bar, and I’m giving him a piece of my mind. A big fucking piece too. I don’t care who’s there or what they have to say about it.

I’m at the door, arm outstretched, handle within reach, when the door opens, and who should breeze in but Decker. The sight of him like that, his big, beautiful dumb face rapidly arranging itself into a series of surprised circles, takes the rage I’m feeling, pours gasoline all over it, and lights that bad boy up.

I drag him into the room by the scruff of his neck and kick the door shut. “Where the hell have you been?” He opens and shuts his mouth, and for some reason, that triggers me. It makes me stiffen and tense everywhere. Abs. Jaw. Fists.

I want to punch him. I want to push him and shove him. I want contact. I want to come into contact with him. I crave it. I want to lay hands on him, so I do.

Hands. Knuckles. Palms.

Mouth.

Tongue.

Teeth.

He correctly senses I’m not in full control of myself and takes me by both shoulders, shaking me almost hard enough to jolt me out of my stupor. Close, but not quite. I’m still frothing, swinging wildly. I’m so blinded that most of my blows don’t land, which only adds to my rage.

“McGuire,” he says, holding me at arm’s length with an easy smile that slices through fury and makes my brain splutter. “Are we fighting or fucking?”

“You left me on read, you dick.” I attempt to jab at his chest. My reflexes are slowed to the point he catches my wrist easily and twists it behind my back. He does it hard. Hard enough to send a deep burn down the right side of my body that subdues me. He keeps my wrist where it is, curled up to my spine, and uses it as a rudder to steer me forward. I take two steps forward and brace with one hand against the wall.

He lets go of me and leans in. “Had to.” Warm breath hits my neck and spills down my arms. Hot liquid runs down me and settles between my legs. “I was at the bar with Luddy, and you were blowing up my phone. Your name was all over my screen.”

He turns my head and presses one side of my face against the wall in front of me, brushing my hair out ofmy face, smoothing it down with a big hand. His face is so close to mine I can smell him. So close I can almost taste him. A sweet-and-salty combination that tastes like a challenge. Like victory. Like winning.

I want him.

I snap at his jaw, teeth glancing off coarse hair and a stubborn jaw. He cradles the back of my skull in his palm and pries my mouth open with his other hand. “Want to put this mouth to use, huh?” he murmurs. “Fine. Open. Make yourself useful.” I do. I let my jaw drop, and he thrusts two fingers into my mouth. “Make ’em wet, Princess.”

Arousal hits me hard. Harder than anything has before. My dick, which has been hard off and on since we left the ice, stiffens irrevocably as I swirl my tongue around his fingers like he told me. As I do it, he pushes my jeans down just below the shelf of my ass, exposing me and making me feel undone and a little humiliated at the same time.

That’s it. That’s the moment it hits me.

This is happening. It’s real. It’s not a dream. I’m here, and so is he, and we’re about to do the thing I’ve been thinking of since the first time he kissed me.

He kicks my legs open and lifts the hem of my T-shirt to the middle of my back. Despite the fact I’m stillalmost fully clothed, I feel naked in a way I’ve never felt before. Naked to my bones. Naked to my marrow.